


North

by llassah



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for catwalksalone's 'it's okay to say "I love you"' fest. Geoff has always been hopelessly drawn to the forbidden, and what is more forbidden than a prince?</p>
            </blockquote>





	North

He stops calling himself Sir Thomas, changes his armour and shield and his heralds and pages have changes of tunic. Geoff watches as he and Will joust around each other, two stars in orbit. Will knows it's the prince, every time, just as he would know if it were Adhemar. There are still the camps, the singing and dances, the music drifting on the breeze as the blacksmiths work and the priests pray and the pardoners slink. Geoff walks well into the night, inhales woodsmoke and his wine and listens for the sound of dice. He wears no cloak, carries no weapon and there is a fierce sort of joy in this, in leaving himself open and vulnerable as the old yearning overtakes him.

"You are out late, poet."

He looks up. Illuminated by the distant fire of the smiths, the Black Prince stands, a fresh bandage on his shoulder and a slight bruise on his forehead. Geoff bows deep.

"My Lord," he says, mindful of listeners. The prince smiles, and on his face is a flash of Chaucer's own joy, but brighter and purer, and if he is iron and Will is gold then the prince is a red hot coal and the clinking of hammer on anvil. He nods, and Geoff bows again, chest suddenly tight, fingers itching with the urge to gamble, to risk something, to prove he is not a coward even if he does not fight. He takes a step closer, puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses him, just to the side of his mouth then turns and leaves, hands shaking with what he should not want. He has always been hopelessly drawn to the forbidden. As he walks away, he drains the skin of wine, and then gets spectacularly drunk. In the morning, Wat finds him naked, with bruised knuckles and a bloodied mouth and is too worried to give him the proper fonging speech, for which he is grateful.

It passes, and the tournaments come and go, and Will fights the prince and Adhemar, looks for their names on the Lists and Geoff sets out inventing greater stories, more outlandish ones. It is only when he tilts against the prince that Geoff keeps it as pure truth, and he doesn't stop to think what that means.

Back to London, back to that damned place. Geoff gets drunk and whores and carouses as Kate shakes her head, Wat threatens, punches, and, direly, embraces, and Roland, he thinks, probably understands better than anyone, and stays silent. Will looks at him, long and piercing, then leaves with purpose set in his shoulders.

The prince finds him in his rooms on a rare sober day and he falls to his knees, head bowed, and waits for a sword on his neck, a merciful release for he could not hope to receive Will's benison. "Do you love me, poet?" he asks and Geoff closes his eyes.

"Yes."

His voice is harsh like a crow on carrion. He could not look if his life depended on it.

"As your prince, poet?"

He should say yes, to swear with honour and chivalry, for it to be the noblest servitude. It is what he owes him, but this duty is not something dry and dusty, to be found in books, it warm and alive and full of a fierce desperate hope.

"As my lodestone," he whispers, then gathers courage from somewhere. He has no stomach for battle, but he will do this much. He looks up. "I love you as my prince but I know your face behind every helmet, beneath every hood and were you just a man I would know you as more besides," he blunders on, past the point of no return and towards the dragons, and meets his eyes and prepares for death. "I love you as the iron loves the fire that shapes it."

"Stand up, Geoffrey."

He stands, clear-eyed, sober, without a dice in his hand or a knife in his boot.

"Would you have me shape you?" the prince asks, a tilt to his voice. He is not smiling, but his eyes are warmer than he deserves.

"Please," Geoffrey says. He is tired of living with himself. If all the old tales were true, a king can work miracles. A prince, surely, should have some of that power.

"No. I would have you as you are. I could not love you if I had been the making of you."  
The prince steps closer, puts a hand on his shoulder, and kisses his forehead. His hand curls around the back of Geoff's neck and he whispers into the space between them. "You want no more of me than I want of myself- to be as a man and not a prince. You and Will- you tilt when you should withdraw." His voice holds wicked promise and Geoff cannot stop the smile that breaks out. "You made me want you, that night, then fled like a fox before the hounds before I could find the wits to chase you. I have hunted you down, poet. Do you surrender?"

Geoffrey knows what he should say, but has made long habit of ignoring that knowledge. He laughs softly. "So this is your hunting, my prince. If the French get the same treatment at your hands it is no wonder they keep making trouble. I enjoy these battles of yours," and grins as he is tackled to the bed, pinned in place. "I love you so I will never yield."

There are a hundred little deaths in their battle. It lasts for three days, then for years. Skirmishes. The Black Prince tilts against Sir William Thatcher by day and Geoffrey Chaucer by night. Neither side claims victory, and neither gives the field. It is simply not knightly.


End file.
